Jewel of the Plains
by Mellona
Summary: Lyn's past is one of pain and suffering. Her parents and people were slain at the hands of bandits, yet she hardly ever speaks about it. What really happened to the Lorca tribe?


**Jewel of the Plains**

"Please… You must not move," a gentle voice urged.

Disoriented, I tried to open my eyes, but the light, searing after my prolonged time spent in the darkness of slumber, forced me to relinquish my effort and I groaned.

"You must rest," the voice advised once more, compressing a damp cloth to my brow. My body weak, I desperately wanted to comply, yet the haze was slowly dissipating from my mind and I found myself attempting to open my eyes once more. Successful in my second endeavor, I gingerly held the side of my head with one hand as my sight adjusted, using my other arm to struggle to a sitting position.

After a moment's rest, I found the strength to pull my gaze upward in search of the kind voice of my savior. An arms length away, at the foot of the cot I had been placed on, sat a girl. She was quiet, her brow furrowed in concern. In her lap rested a bowl of warm water, and as I stared at her uncomprehendingly, she dipped the cloth in once more and held it out to me. I took it thoughtfully, pressing it to my forehead. Her eyes did not leave mine for one moment. I found myself wondering at these eyes – a smoldering blend of emerald and sapphire, they were shimmering stones of jade, beautifully aged with a wisdom and melancholy that had not manifested in the delicate splendor of her milky white face. I was shocked that one so young could possess a gaze so old. There was a subtle sorrow to her that urged my eyes to probe hers for answers. For a moment I teetered on the edge of an abyss of tumultuous emotion within the girl.

With patience she cleared her throat softly, and I was jolted back to the present. Ashamed that I had attempted to trespass into the private realm of her soul without permission, I glanced away, directing my attention to the small hut I found myself in. It was surprisingly sparse, with naught but a pile of glowing coals smoldering in the midst of the compact dirt floor, a few rabbit hides hanging to dry in one corner, and the cot upon which I sat. Despite this, it was a comforting little place – the open flap of the door welcomed the morning sun into the room and I closed my eyes, inhaling deeply as a warm breeze tickled my face.

"The color has returned to your cheeks," the girl mentioned pleasantly. I did feel a bit reinvigorated, but I said nothing. Wordlessly I returned the damp cloth to her grasp, and we sat in silence for another moment. She rose from the edge of the cot, carrying the bowl toward the door. She moved with catlike grace, a self-poised elegance that caused her hair, a molten stream of the same luminous shade as her eyes, to ripple and dance about her shoulders. Her clothing was foreign, as was the blade that hung at her hip, and with a jolt I recalled where I was.

"I know this place…" I murmured. "I am on the Sacae Plains…"

"Good, so you can speak after all," the girl called over her shoulder, and I mused in silence, brooding as she poured the water on the earth at the foot of the hut. She reemerged momentarily, taking a seat once more at the foot of the cot. Realizing that I would not be the one to initiate conversation, she addressed me pleasantly.

"I found you unconscious on the plains. It seems you received a decent blow to the head."

I nodded. She seemed disappointed by my lack of response, but refused to be discouraged. "I am Lyn, of the Lorca tribe. What is your name?"

I regarded her cautiously, allowing my eyes to wander to the blade at her hip. She followed my gaze, fingering the hilt thoughtfully.

"You don't trust me…" she murmured, obviously crestfallen.

"My name is… Mark…" I said softly.

Lyn looked surprised, but nodded. "It is a good name. I see by your attire that you are a traveler. What brings you to the Sacae Plains? Would you share your story with me?"

"I was attacked by bandits. Though I wield no weapons and was defenseless as they ransacked my belongings, they still saw fit to grant me this parting gift," I said shortly as I motioned to my head. "I am a traveling tactician with nothing of value to them, so I suppose I shall consider myself lucky."

Lyn's expression had darkened, and it was my turn to be surprised as she spat bitterly, "Despicable as ever…"

"What do you mean?" I asked, bewildered at the sudden change in mood.

"I will cut down every one of them," Lyn vowed, her jade eyes flashing dangerously.

"That is not necessary," I murmured. "They did not harm me much."

For a moment the girl looked at me with confusion. Then it dawned on her – she realized that I thought she swore vengeance for the wrong they had done me, but she shook her head. "They may not have harmed you much, but they have dealt me a grievous wound – one that will never heal, but shall remain raw and bleeding all my days."

The sudden fury had left her eyes, leaving only jaded despair. Once more, I felt myself teetering on that abyss of tumultuous emotion which seemed to radiate from her soul. I now recognized that the reason for her sudden rage was unconnected to me, yet directly linked with the mysterious melancholy in her gaze. "I have shared my story," I murmured softly. "Will you not share yours?"

Lyn seemed shocked, her mouth slightly agape as she stared at me. For a moment I felt as if I had precariously crossed some sort of dangerous invisible line, but then she closed her eyes and nodded slowly. She spoke very softly. "Yes… I will share with you the fate of the Lorca tribe."

The girl sat there for a moment in silence, swaying slightly, her hands and eyes clenched tightly. I could feel the pressure mounting within her as her brow furrowed and her body tensed, a single bead of sweat marring the milky smoothness of her forehead. The intensity of the moment captured me as well, and I wordlessly willed her to open her eyes. And then she did.

She seemed to have taken on a new persona – she was now the proud Lyn of the Lorca, not the girl subdued by loneliness and despair. No longer were her eyes a soft jade, but rather emeralds that sparked dangerously with a fiery passion. Her voice was low and clear, and I sat mesmerized in horror as the tale unfolded.

"They call themselves the Taliver. Like snakes they had always lurked in the shadows of the Bern mountains, biting at the heels of my tribesmen. Particularly dangerous they were not, yet they were cruel – decency has no meaning to them, and they, like vultures, will swoop down upon any defenseless and vulnerable prey.

"The Lorca stood for everything the Taliver did not. We were brave, strong, and decent. Hunting was our life, thievery not our style. We were feared on the battlefield – our arrows shot straight and true, our sword strokes were swift and deadly. We stood for justice… and the Taliver opposed it.

"My people were the protectors of local villages – one tribesman could stand up to a small group of the Taliver and emerge not only victorious, but unscathed. Yet there is one weakness the Taliver understood well… far too well. We were human… We were only human…

"Six months have passed, yet that day shall remain seared into my mind for eternity – like the branding of cattle, it will forever be a sore reminder of the day that I, no matter how ferociously I writhed and bucked, resisted and fought, was forced into submission.

"It dawned like any other day here on the plains – the sky was a lovely cloudless azure, the grass billowing in the gentle breeze. When you gazed down upon it from atop a hill, it looked like an endless sea of golden silk, flowing and ebbing with the wind. And the river… the river upon which we camped was so clear you could count the tiny pebbles on the bottom – we never knew the river, which seemed to bless us with life in a place so arid, would be the one to take it away.

"Every morning, as was customary, one tribesman would go to the river and fetch two large buckets of water. Bearing them upon proud shoulders, he or she would then return to the huts and travel amongst the people, ladling what was necessary for each hut to cook their morning meal. The tribesmen took turns, and this morning happened to be mine. My mother, Madelyn, offered to go in my stead, and I let her. It is the moment in my life I most regret.

"The buckets were heavy, and my mother stopped to refresh herself before she had even reached the huts. By the time she had made her way to ours, she was strangely exhausted. After she ladled us the appropriate amount, I forced her to relinquish the duty to me. I assumed only that she was weary, but when I think back on that moment now, I see a doomed woman. She nodded gratefully, too weak to speak, and I traveled to each hut she had not yet visited.

"The task was long and arduous, for the buckets were heavy and the sun hot. My mind occupied with worry for my mother, I did not even stop to rest or refresh myself as she had done. Even without cease, it took from sunup to noon for me to finish, and my shoulders were sore and my mind weary as I trudged homeward. Never had I been so relieved to see the tiny hut.

"Yet you cannot imagine the terror that gripped my heart when I discovered my parents. I had returned not to a haven, but to a nightmare. My mother rested limply in my father, Hassar's arms, scarlet trickling from the corner of her lips as she gazed emptily toward the sky. She appeared to be sleeping, but I knew the sleep that had taken her was a much more profound slumber from which she would never awake. The emotion in my father's eyes was torturous – he was a man who had lost everything. The realization had dawned on him as he saw the life slipping from my mother's eyes: they had poisoned the river. He was a doomed man himself – even now he could feel the life seeping from his veins. He had lost his wife, his people – for he was chieftain of the Lorca – and would soon lose himself. Yet even in the midst of this plight, there was one thing that concerned my father above all else…

"'You… did not drink the water, did you?' he gasped. His face was pale, his breathing ragged, yet his eyes were unchanged: they still held the wisdom and love of a great leader. I shook my head, dumbstruck. Even in the face of all the injustice of the dirty hand we had been dealt, my father wept tears of joy. 'The Taliver, Lyndis… they…poisoned the river…' he explained between sobs. 'You… you must flee, and take any survivors with you…'

"Just then, the air was shattered with the sound of savage battle cries. They surrounded us, deafened us, forced us to acknowledge their presence. Like death the Taliver had come, mercilessly anxious to reap the souls of those who had not yet succumbed to the poison. Yet there was one thing the cries of the Taliver could never force the Lorca to do: fear them. At the sound of the Taliver my father's eyes flashed darkly with determination, and despite the poison ravaging his body, he leapt to his feet. He began to stride toward the flap, but stopped and glanced back at my mother. He seemed to know this was the last he would see of her. Gingerly, he removed the blade from my mother's hip and handed it wordlessly to me. Then, returning to his beloved wife, he knelt and kissed her brow. Without sadness he traced a finger along her delicate cheek and made his final vow: 'I will be with you soon, Madelyn.'

"My father's voice was a force not even poison could squelch. Like a storm it rumbled and reverberated throughout the village, as strong as thunder as he cried, 'My people of the Lorca! For one last time, lend me your ear!'

"All who yet lived dragged themselves from their huts, crowding loyally around their broken leader. They had already armed themselves, refusing to let death take them unopposed. The war cries of the Taliver grew louder, yet the expressions of my people only became more resolute, and the voice of one man soared above the voices of many.

"'We are a people that stand for justice, and we are a people that will die for justice. In the past we have cut down every bandit that stood in the way of honesty, integrity, and everything that is good in this world. We have fought and won countless battles. My people, this will not be one of those battles. This will be the one battle we will not win, but this will be our finest hour. Men, women, and children of the Lorca, we will die fighting for the principles we so cherish! May they not be forgotten! For one last time, lend me your aid!'

"His words were short and direct – every tribesman knew these would be his final and finest moments. Yet there was not a single person who showed fear. They were condemned but they were courageous, and mine was the only hand that trembled, the only arm that wavered as the Taliver stormed our village.

"I fought at my father's side. His arm was swift and true, and the fight seemed to be in our favor for awhile. But, as I said, we were only human – the poison was quick to take effect, and the tribesmen began to fall one by one. My father was no exception; his blows became weaker and slower, and I was soon fending off hordes of Taliver with the help of a single lone archer, who was perched on horseback at the rear of my father and I.

"Something possessed me in those moments. I was bitter – my mother was dead, my father dying slowly and painfully at my side, crimson streaming from his mouth as he continued to jab harmlessly at the merciless bandits. I was bitter, I was scared, and I was enraged – never had I seen such injustice in my life. I became some sort of beast, thriving on the swirl of wild emotions within me, and my arm darted effortlessly, as if my mother were directing her blade through me. Taliver after Taliver fell at my sword, the earth littered with corpses, but I was not enough to hold back so many bandits.

"He had fought well, but the poison was too much for the archer to take; he slumped and fell from the saddle, his expression content as he departed from our world. My father and I were now alone, and I looked to him as I had done as a child.

"For a moment, time seemed to cease. I saw the love and pride in my father's eyes, and it was too much to bear. My tears flowed silently as I watched him in anguish, but he shook his head and brushed them from my cheeks. 'You must not cry, Lyndis,' he murmured softly. 'You are all that is left of the Lorca. You must be proud, and carry on the name of our tribe. Dry your tears and, from this moment on, vow never to let the world succumb to injustice, my daughter. Do this in memory of me.'

"I never got to express the words I wanted. The air had been so cruelly stolen from my lungs, the words dying on my lips. I never got to tell him how much I loved him, or promise that I would free the world from suffering… because at that moment time resumed, and my father had chance only to muster the strength for one final gift to me. With the last of his might, he enveloped me in his arms and lifted me above his head.

"I blinked and I was no longer trapped in a writhing tomb of my people. I was an infant, sleeping fitfully in my father's strong arms. I blinked again, and I was a baby; my first steps had been a failure, but my father's arms had been there to catch me. I blinked once more, and I was a child – only a few years younger than myself now, but oh, how I have aged – and my father was wrapping me in a hug as I returned home from a long hunt on the plains. One final time did I blink, and the memories of my happy childhood were replaced with the harsh realization of a daughter's final moment with her father: the arms that had so long sheltered me from the world would no longer be there to catch me when I fell.

"I could feel the burden he was under; his arms trembled but he did not falter as he settled me gently on the horse of the fallen archer. It was then, as he unwillingly relinquished his duty as my protector, that he drew his last shuddering breath. His body was broken by the strain of his effort, and the man that had always been so strong, who had towered over me and whose statuesque physique had stricken fear into the hearts of many a bandit, shattered like a fragile teacup. He fell to his knees, using the last of his strength to gaze up into the face of his only child, his successor as the last of the Lorca tribe. For one tortuous moment our gaze met, and I felt my heart splinter into thousands of hard, tiny shards.

"He was perfectly peaceful as the light faded from his eyes. I remember crying out as the axes of a hundred men rose collectively in a massive wave that crashed down relentlessly upon my beloved father, crushing his bones and extinguishing the life of the greatest man I had ever known.

"_I am alone_, I thought. _Completely and utterly alone… _Black dots exploded before my eyes, and a rushing sound filled my ears. Shock set in, and I succumbed to darkness, haunted by the eyes of my father..."

Afternoon had come and gone, and dusk was falling. Lyn was quiet for a moment, then rose and walked toward the door. I pressed my hands to my cheeks; they were damp with tears. I shook my head slowly in disbelief. It was no wonder why the girl possessed a certain dark sadness.

"I awoke here," she murmured softly, her back to me. "Wishing that darkness had consumed me like it had consumed my family and my people. Six months have passed, and the pain has not dulled… Yet my resolve has grown ever stronger. Since death was not gracious enough to take me, I vow to grant my father his dying wish. Justice will be served, and the Taliver shall fall at my hand…"

Lyn turned from the door, one hand clenched resolutely into a fist, the other at the hilt of her mother's blade. The sky, now a vivid streak of fiery red and orange and gold, framed her in the doorway. The colors of the sky positively lit her on fire, her hair a blazing stream of emerald and crimson and amber, her eyes glowing orbs of flaming intensity.

"You are a tactician," the young woman said, her voice quivering. "Mark, I am but a novice, but with you, I will become stronger. Will you honor the wishes of a dying man? Stay with me, guide my arm, and together we shall ensure the world suffers from injustice no more?"

Hope shone in her eyes, and I felt a surge of admiration for the young woman. She was alone in a forlorn world, had witnessed the massacre of her entire tribe, and yet she still had the courage to fight for what was decent and good in humanity. My answer was immediate. "Lyn of the Lorca, you truly are the spirit of your people. I would be honored to accompany you…"


End file.
